Heights
by Dlvvanzor
Summary: When Sherlock came back from the dead, John gave him exactly 20 minutes to explain himself, rose to his feet, made enough tea for one person, and proceeded to ignore Sherlock's existence for the next seven days. After pretending not to exist for three years, though, Sherlock didn't really find it hard to pretend for another week. Johnlock, oneshot


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**A/N: Attack of the fluff! Dialogue originally from an RP with Living in a Fantasy.**

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When Sherlock came back from the dead and showed up on the doorstep of 221B, John had opened the door, Sherlock's heart had leapt, and John had stared for exactly 64 seconds before stepping aside to let him in, immediately turning around and going up the stairs to his room, where he locked the door.

It wasn't the warmest greeting Sherlock had ever received but, being intimately acquainted with the usually-concealed Watsonian temper and seeing as how his face remained un-punched, he considered himself pretty lucky.

When John had finally come down from his room, he had given Sherlock twenty minutes to explain the whole situation. He had listened stone-faced as Sherlock explained the why ("...would have killed you, John, and I wouldn't have been able to...") and, briefly, the how ("...and a blood bag, and a rubber ball for my pulse..."). Sherlock had spent the rest of his allotted time apologizing profusely, because as oblivious as he may sometimes be when it came to emotions, he could tell that John wasn't wearing his 'I Forgive Sherlock' face and it was possibly the most terrifying thing the detective had ever seen.

Considering how he had spent the last three years, this was saying a lot.

When the twenty minutes were up (it was so exact that Sherlock suspected John had actually used a stopwatch), the doctor rose to his feet, made enough tea for one person, took the tea, left the room, and proceeded to ignore Sherlock's existence for the next seven days.

After pretending not to exist for three years, Sherlock didn't find it hard to pretend for another week.

In a way, it was nice. He got to be around John again, which felt like putting stitches in a wound that had been bleeding steadily for three years. He didn't have to deal with any messy human interactions, a nice adjustment period after so long alone. He even got to sleep in a bed that had absolutely no insects in it, even if there was no John in it either.

He felt like a ghost in his own home, but that was okay. At least he was back where John was.

At the end of these seven days, nearly to the minute (stopwatch?), John came down from his room, gave Sherlock a cheerful good morning, and made enough tea for both of them.

It was as if the last three years had never happened, and Sherlock was confused as hell.

Because John? He didn't want to talk about it. When Sherlock tried, John's face remained pleasantly blank until Sherlock changed the subject, at which point he would enthusiastically re-engage. When Sherlock tried to sit him down and discuss the last three years in more detail, John simply stood back up.

It made absolutely no sense.

John always wanted to talk about it. Always, about _everything_. It didn't even matter what _it_ was. In the beginning, Sherlock had gone so far as to entertain the notion that John might have some kind of neurotic compulsion about getting people to talk about their personal problems. Eventually he had decided that it was simply some strange but endearing aspect of his nature. Now, he was starting to understand why John liked to have things talked about, if the result of _not_ talking was suffocating tension that literally drove Sherlock to the roof.

The view of his beloved London from the roof of 221B was impressive, considering the relative shortness of the building. It was also the ideal place to view passersby: it was high enough that no one ever looked up, but close enough that he could still make out enough details to deduce the masses. Today, for example, there were two men sitting together at Speedy's, brothers, and Sherlock could see enough to know that they were out to lunch after attending their mother's wake.

It wasn't a place he went to a lot— in the year and a half he'd lived with John before he'd "died," he had only come up here three times— but he liked it. He felt clever. John always stormed off 'for some air' when he was mad at Sherlock. When _Sherlock_ had felt the need to leave, he'd simply slipped up here and John had never figured it out.

He heard footsteps behind him. His brain automatically identified them for him, as always, although in this case it was hardly necessary. He would know any of the little noises John made, anywhere. Apparently he had discovered the small doorway that led here at some point in the last three years. Sherlock wondered when.

"Sherlock? What are you doing up here?"

Puzzled, tense. John should never have to be _tense _around him. Had 'dying' for him really ruined their friendship forever? And his half-developed hopes of something more, maybe, when he came back? That hardly seemed fair. Or was this one of those situations where Sherlock was just supposed to be patient?

Instead of giving him the honest response of 'getting away from you,' Sherlock pointed down, over the edge, and gestured at the people. "Look."

Hesitantly, John approached him, looking him over quickly before casting his gaze to the ground below. "What about them?"

"_Watch_ them."

John gave it a try like he always did, bless him. He always got it at least half wrong, but Sherlock never tired of watching him attempt it and for some reason he still always hoped that, someday, John would get it totally _right_.

He certainly had a better shot than anyone else Sherlock knew.

After a few minutes of staring, John shook his head, giving up. "I don't understand what you expect me to see."

"There is always something to see. What _do_ you see?"

He sighed. Irritated, then. At the lack of instruction? Or at Sherlock himself? Once upon a time, Sherlock was fairly certain he would have been able to work that out.

"I see dozens of people walking, because it's midday London," John finally answered, voice flat. "A pair of men eating at the table outside of Speedy's. A girl walking her dog. A couple with a tram."

Hope welled up again. Maybe if they could just settle back into _this _routine. The one where John got things wrong and Sherlock berated him— he had been tiptoeing around John this whole time, maybe _that _was the problem. "Okay. Yes. Good. Now, deduce. About... the girl."

John sighed again. He sighed a lot, lately. Still, he focused on the girl, frowning in concentration as he tried to see what he knew Sherlock could see.

"She's... checked her phone three times since I saw her, so anxious to hear from someone?"

She could be, yes. Sherlock nodded. "And she's got a dog. So who might she be anxious to hear from?"

"Someone she lives with?"

That... didn't make nearly as much sense as a vet, or even a date, but with such limited knowledge it was as good a guess as any.

"Good, John."

Wait, he was supposed to be berating him. When had that become difficult?

Needed another person to deduce, then.

Sherlock hopped up onto the ledge, peering down at the humanity beneath him for a good subject. The two men. He knew about them, so it would be easier to correct John if he was wrong. "And the pair of—"

The detective was cut off by a strangled cry of "Sherlock!" and by a pair of hands like a vise on his shoulders, wrenching him back and nearly making him lose his balance.

"_What_?" he demanded, stumbling on the cement until he was steadied by John. Twisting around to escape, his eyes landed on the ledge he'd been standing on, and it clicked. "Oh."

John wouldn't look at him. He also wouldn't let go. Careful to make no sudden movements, Sherlock disentangled himself from John's grasp and turned around to face him.

Looking everywhere but at Sherlock, John mumbled, "Could you just... not stand on the edge, at least?"

"Yes, I... of course."

Staying a good distance back this time, Sherlock again looked down at the people below but he found his heart was no longer in it. He would much rather be looking at John. At John's tightly-controlled expression, at John's coiled muscles and tense back. At John's breath, forced into an approximation of a normal pattern, knowing Sherlock was watching. At John's eyes, as they apparently counted the pebbles at his feet.

Sherlock looked away.

"The two men down there," he said, finally. It couldn't keep going this way, and it looked like John was too damaged by this whole affair— Sherlock's fault— to do it himself. He shifted. "One of them almost died, recently. He tried to hang himself. He was declared dead for... quite a while. The other is his flatmate. His best friend."

Sherlock paused, glanced at John. The doctor was looking at him, now, but strangely, and Sherlock found he couldn't maintain the eye contact. Softly, he continued, "When he thought his friend was dead, he was... crushed. The one who nearly died is grateful, and wishes he knew how to take it back, even though he did it for a reason."

Now, John was staring at the two men with his whole body, not in the least bit turned towards Sherlock. "They don't bring it up," John said, "because it's hard. But, er, judging from the flatmate's... shoes? Yes, see, they're untied. Meaning he understands."

John. _His_ John. His brilliant, stunning John.

"Judging by his coat," Sherlock chose at random, "and his shoelaces, the one who nearly died wishes there had been some other way. He did not like causing his flatmate any kind of distress."

"The one who didn't try to hang himself..." John said slowly, carefully. "He gets it. He's thought about how he would do the same thing, were the situations reversed. But it's almost too good to be true. It really looked like his flatmate wasn't going to make it. He'd literally asked for a miracle, that his friend wouldn't die, and, well, he got it. Sometimes it's just hard to remember. And with such a huge thing between them, he doesn't know how to make their lives go back to normal."

The brothers were gathering their things and paying their bill, standing up and walking slowly, sadly away, talking little.

"Judging from the way the flatmate keeps leaning towards him, he understands, but just... needs..." John struggled for a moment, then his shoulders slumped and he sighed. "That physical reassurance, I guess, that the one who nearly died is really alright."

That sounded like a request. That was a request, right? Sherlock wasn't sure, but he'd be damned if he passed up the chance. It wasn't like there was much he could do to damage their relationship more.

"The one who nearly died seems to have taken his hand. To reassure him. I wonder if the other is appreciative or disgusted...?" He paused, then added softly, "No way to know, from deducing."

John was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost inaudible. "The other one squeezed his fingers. So I guess it was okay."

Very slowly, giving the other man plenty of time to change his mind or politely shift away, Sherlock sent his hand towards John's. When their palms met he held his breath. John, instead of pulling back, laced their fingers together.

"He is sorry," Sherlock said softly. "He'll never be able to tell him _how_ sorry."

Fingers tightened around Sherlock's, and he could almost hear John saying "it's all fine." How many times had Sherlock played that memory in his head?

They didn't say a word for a while, and John never let go of Sherlock's hand.

John cleared his throat. "He couldn't imagine losing him again," he said matter-of-factly.

It was getting cold, but Sherlock didn't even feel that sort of thing anymore. Judging from the way John was standing, though, all folded over on himself to conserve heat, he did.

He was doing this. Might as well do it all the way.

He detached himself from John, trying his best not to react to the flash of hurt he saw in his eyes, and unwound his scarf. Deftly wrapping it around John's neck (he looked ridiculous but Sherlock had, possibly, never seen anything more adorable), he allowed his fingers to linger on the fabric, straightening the material.

Firmly, he said, "He won't."

It took John a moment to reply, and when he finally managed he seemed a bit winded. He smiled slightly. "He better not."

With another final, definitive tug on the scarf, Sherlock repeated, not smiling, "He _won't_."

In what appeared to be a sudden fit of courage, John pressed a little closer. "More physical contact reassures him more."

Right. That one _had_ to be a request. Accordingly, Sherlock let his fingers alight gently on John's face. The other man leaned into the touch.

"What would it take," Sherlock whispered, "to reassure him beyond any future doubt?"

"I'm not sure he can. But." He shook his head to clear it and took Sherlock's hand from his face, interlocking their fingers again. "The physical contact would have to be more regular, for one thing. The more the better."

Sherlock huffed out a small laugh. "He isn't good at that, but he's desperate to try. He might need explicit guidance about... what exactly is meant..."

"Well, he wouldn't mind if the hand holding was more regular," John said slowly. "Or sitting together on the sofa. Or," he added, "hugging. Maybe, um..." Almost imperceptivity (but nothing was imperceptible to Sherlock Holmes, of course), John leaned closer to him, meeting his eyes.

Sherlock's voice was low. "Maybe, what?"

John was watching him carefully, and that almost made Sherlock laugh aloud. God, what did _John _have to be afraid of? That Sherlock would run away from him? If anyone should be terrified, it should be the one who was all but confessing his love for a man with a 30-year heterosexuality streak.

"Well," John said hesitantly, "a kiss, maybe."

Accordingly, Sherlock leaned in a bit closer. "He finds that agreeable, as well." He didn't close the small remaining distance. Still more time for John to back out and they could pretend it had never happened.

Go back to pretending everything was fine.

"Good."

And then lips were on his,_ John's_ lips, and it was a tentative kiss but it was by far the greatest thing Sherlock had ever experienced, ever, and he'd done cocaine and eaten the world's finest chocolate and slept (briefly) on a bed made for kings, but this was better. And as lights and fireworks and all manner of bright, explosive things went off behind Sherlock's eyes, he let his fingers slip up into John's hair and, miraculously, John's arms came around him and pulled him closer and suddenly it was even _better _and Sherlock didn't have words.

When Sherlock was convinced that any more would actually kill him— all things considered, it was a good way to go— John gently separated them, and they could do nothing but stare at each other.

"Yes," John said finally. "Yes, that does help. Him." He nodded as if it were a profound scientific discovery. "And you know, it would probably be best if it was a regular, everyday kind of thing. If that was okay."

"Yes, please." Sherlock was breathless, spinning, giddy. It was ridiculous, actually, but there it was.

Brilliant, lovely, observant John noticed. Of course he did. He grinned and gave Sherlock another, very-brief kiss before pulling back to take his hand and tug. "Tea?"

And it was all fine, and for the first time in three years, Sherlock relaxed.

He smiled back. "Tea."


End file.
